


Covetous

by labasu



Category: Death Note, Death Note & Related Fandoms, Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Cannibalism, Criminal Masterminds, Crossover, F/F, Gen, M/M, Multi, Murder Husbands, Serial Killers, actual cannibal light yagami, criminal profiler l lawliet, i don't fucking know what to tell you man i just
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-21
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-20 05:05:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1497688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/labasu/pseuds/labasu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>L is a criminal profiler. Light eats people. Sometimes, they have breakfast together. Hannibal AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Most of this follows NBC Hannibal's timeline, apart from the inclusion of several scenes and the tweaking of many details (higher body count, everything happens in Virginia, etc.). 
> 
> I'd like to think my research has been accurate, but if you find any faults please send me a line. 
> 
> This is a tentative one-shot. There are a lot of characters and issues I would like to resolve in further chapters, but I'm afraid I don't have much time in my schedule. A week from now, I will update the status of this story to incomplete if I do manage to get some downtime.
> 
> Tumblr link: http://albasti.tumblr.com/post/83367847313/dn-fic-covetous-1-1  
> FFNet link: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10293096/1/Covetous

Mihael knows it's over when the dog dies.

The neighbour's shovel is giving him splinters. He grips hard anyway and digs deeper.

Grass is lazy in April. Months of winter have softened the fields, browning the grass better than Matt's piss ever had. Mihael won't be outside for long.

Matt was a good dog. He couldn't sit or stay, but he'd follow wherever Mihael went. Most of his favourite memories are scored by Matt's panting in the background.

Trouble is, Matt never knew when to stop.

Mihael reckoned his dad would have been kinder if Matt had kept quiet. The last girl was a squirmer, thrashing in the milkweeds so much she'd coloured her arms with red scratches and pinkish pollen. His dad had hummed when she gave in, told Mihael the strong ones always taste better. Sweetheart's tenderized herself, he had said.

Mihael felt sicker at the joke than the act at the time. Now, he thinks of how he bit back from saying a Hail Mary after they'd closed her eyes and that pushes him over.

His knees buckle and he retches beside his dog's grave. He keeps his head bowed for several minutes afterwards, hands rubbed raw on the shovel's handle. Mihael doesn't get up until he's said the rosary twice.

When he's done, he fishes a Kit Kat from his pocket. He keeps several drugstore bars on hand at all times just for this. Last time, he went through four Baby Ruths before the taste of cheap chocolate finally overwhelmed the sourness in his mouth.

They will honour her, of course. Her hair for their quilts, her bones jellified for pipes, her meat for their table.

Mihael is glad his dad did not want to honour Matt. After the girl quit struggling, Matt stirred from his nap in the backseat. Catching sight of Mihael outside, he'd honed in on the boy like always, yipping madly all the way. He'd only gotten a yard away from the car before his dad had shot Matt down and he'd died mid-bark, body sagging over a fallen oak.

We don't take mutts to hunt, love, he'd said over Mihael's quiet sobbing, as they heaved the girl into the trunk. He'd thrown Mihael the shovel and a bus token before driving off for work, leaving him to bury his kill.

He wonders how his dad hadn't noticed Matt earlier. When they had been going down the main road and Mihael had rolled down the window, the cool southern air had excited Matt. He'd done what all dogs do and stuck his head out, tail hitting Mihael's shoulder with each wag. Matt had yelped when they hit the speed bump near Winsmore Avenue. Mihael petted him the whole trip through afterwards, fingers finding knots in Matt's thick tiger-striped coat and pulling them loose.

Mihael figures his dad had known, but he can't say for sure. There's a lot about his dad that he guesses. Every night is an uncertainty. Five hours ago, his biggest worry was advanced algerbra.

What he does know roots itself in half-truths and crockpot dinners and his father's calloused hands; on his hands, guiding knives to arteries; on his shoulders, steadying him as he carved as kindly as he could into fresh hides; running through his too long hair, untangling blonde knots with a comb whittled from bone.

And he does know it is over. That much is true. Mihael can't bear another night out here, where shotguns are pointed at girls and fired at dogs.

It takes thirty minutes to walk to the main road. He could catch a blue light bus and be home by dawn if he hurries.

 

* * *

 

L is used to travel. Neon smears and red-eye flights are dotted across his adult life, mapping out each closed case like an over-enthusastic child's colouring book, leaving few spaces where he hasn't made his mark.

But he's rarely near when they need him. He's taken to consulting several cases at once via Skype calls, from the uncomfort of a remote English manor shrouded in thick greedy ivy, unless the stakes call for a personal touch.

So it's a surprise when the FBI requests he deals with a Virginia killer while he is in Georgia, finishing up the Atlanta Child Murders. He could arrange to fly by morning, even within the hour if he really wanted to, but this hotel serves Belgian waffles for breakfast. He'll call Watari for a ride around noon, when the tourist rush hits that peak of unwashed stench and toddler babble.

The gooseneck lamp beside his bed hangs too low, leaving most of the room swathed in the early evening dark. Soichiro is late, so it's likely another girl has been found.

When Soichiro calls, L knows he hasn't slept. The man has foregone the usual niceness of mindless conversation that eased these talks.

“How much do you know?”

“Just what's on the news. Watari has not briefed me yet. Twelve girls?”

There is a tense moment before Soichiro answers.

“Yes. Twelve, as of an hour ago. I'm sure you've noticed the pattern.”

“All blonde, blue-eyed, 17 to 18 years, thin, white. All strangled, then found with injuries suggesting staking. Time frame's about three months. Sakura TV's calling this one the Reverse Hitler.”

Soichiro gave a mirthless laugh. “Those bastards. Local law's calling him the Shrike.”

L closes his eyes and sees dead mice impaled on bare branches.

Soichiro suddenly remembers pleasantries. “I hope Atlanta is agreeing with you.”

It isn't. The weather here is too good for L. He is used to a life of trying to get warmer, where coldsnapped days were spent under electric blankets and hovering around the kettle. America is a heavy hotness, even in spring. At least the rain is familiar here. There are sudden downpours most days, beloved by the worms who never go back home.

“It's bearable,” L says. Everything is bearable, really.

“Good. You'll be meeting forensics tomorrow. You will come, right?”

“Yes.” The numbers are high enough, and he hasn't managed to flesh out a solid profile from blown-out photos of mutilated corpses and field reports alone. This one requires more thought.

 

* * *

 

L stays in Wolf Trap. Grey skies threaten bad weather by day and fitzing porch lights threaten lightning for moths by night. The house is surrounded by infertile farmlands and dirt roads. It's a beacon of white peeling paint and rotting wood in a sea of neglected apple orchards. Tire marks full of rainwater encircle the residence like a poor man's moat, deep enough for brave deer to rely on to quench their thirst and braver raccoons to wash their food. Inside, twin heady musks of forgotten laundry and spilled instant coffee seeps into the outdated furniture. Green ants crawl on the hoods of scuffed windows, marching around half-empty cartons of almond milk. All in all, L thinks it's the perfect place to remain vigilant and watchful for storms.

The house was purchased hours after Soichiro called. Watari bought it from a friend and former motorcross champion, now grizzled and destined for a retirement home.

Overall, L finds the house in an acceptable state. There are no insidious associations he can make with the man's belongings, and what perversions he does detect (a Martin van Maële painting and a pile of Quentin Tarantino films suggest a suppressed foot fetish) aren't perversions of justice.

He debates between illness or dwindling funds as the ex-homeowner's primary motivation for selling his home and most of his possessions on such short notice, before he stumbles across cortisol medication in the bathroom. He decides on illness, tipping orange pill vials into the trash.

Adrenal fatigue was fairly obvious, given the homeowner's lifestyle. An extensive trophy collection, ranging in years but always cast in gold, was scattered across the living room, and coffee mug rings were stained all over the ottoman. Only four personal photos were framed above the fireplace. The photos were all candid shots of the homeowner, young and sunbrowned, with his arms around a woman of similar build and age.

The high intensity of racing had dwarfed family; by the occupants of the photos, L thinks a romantic relationship early in his career, possibly with a fellow competitor, was the only human connection the homeowner had valued. Because the photos remained, it's probable the two hadn't split, but that the woman had died.

There's no time for further observations. He had only spent fifteen minutes in the house before he hears Soichiro calling him back.

They won't be meeting forensics today, at least not in the lab. There's been a thirteenth.

 

* * *

 

They couldn't call the Shrike's victims murders until the eighth girl. Before, the case was a string of missing teens, spirited away on Friday nights. In March, the Shrike had left Michelle Cluizel in her bed, swaddled like a newborn. They found puncture wounds in her torso, stuffed with antler velvet, and stitches across her chest. From that, the name Shrike stuck. The birds were in-season anyway, their prey found atop chain fences, falling from trees and the heads of deer. The parallels struck L as a sign the Shrike could be a long-time local, familiar with the wildlife.

Last night, Katrina Markoff was found in her dorm room at George Mason University, lying in bed much like Michelle with the same wounds and stuffings. Her roommate had at first reported her as the victim of alcohol poisoning, but first responders realized Katrina's corpse was impaled after peeling layers of sheets away. She also had stitches, but in her side.

“He loves them,” L tells Soichiro as they drive. “Not physically of course, since we didn't find bodily fluids or signs of intercourse. He wouldn't hurt them that way. However, there's nothing special about these girls. This is all for one girl. By extension, I assume he feels a form of affection towards the rest. But, Michelle and Katrina weren't supposed to be taken. He put them back where he found them, risking capture to do so. Michelle and Katrina were apologies.”

“For what?”

“I haven't figured that out yet,” L admits. “They are outliers somehow, unable to fit the ideal he's searching for. I'm curious about the stitches, considering nothing internally was taken or inserted. Chances are he removed organs, but then returned them for some reason. Could you have them tested for abnormal tumour growths or organ diseases? Oh, and have the higher-ups cleared this yet?”

“Yes and yes, as long as you do a psych eval when we get back.”

“That won't be necessary.”

Soichiro is shaking his head as soon as the words leave L's mouth.

“It is now. Hoope revised field regulations for special investigators last week.”

“Oh, hell,” L says. David Hoope hates him.

“There's nothing to worry about. I've arranged for my son to do the eval.”

“That's fortunate. I'm glad nepotism is alive and well. Have you ran a background check?”

Soichiro doesn't say anything for a minute.

“He's my son,” he finally says slowly. “I raised him.”

“I conduct background checks on everyone who is close to me,” L says.

“I raised him,” Soichiro repeats, so L drops the matter.

 

* * *

 

 They park a block away, since the street in front of the Komatsu home is crowded enough with police cruisers.

“The mother found her in bed. Wounds were in the same positions as the other two. Early signs point to strangulation as cause of death, but this time he slashed her throat afterward.”

“Tell me about the Komatsus.”

“Family of two, mother's divorced. Sanami wasn't white, but other than that she fits the profile. She went missing on Friday, just like the other girls.”

Ms. Komatsu sees them at the door.

“Find him,” she says, and that's all she can manage.

She shows them in. Soichiro sits down with her in the living room. L leaves them there wordlessly and heads upstairs. He's glad Soichiro ordered privacy for his assessment. Her grief would have been overwhelming.

Pure empathy is what they've called his deductions, the ability to completely take on anyone's perspective, but L doubts his thoughts stem from any kind place.

Sanami's room is empty, for now. The detectives hovering by her door nod to him. He needn't flash his glossy blue-and-white identification card (“HIDEKI RYUGA, CRIMINAL PROFILER”), but he does anyway. He's worked with most of them at least twice. Something about America is a siren call for the monstrous, and he finds his most sinister foes always end up here.

Sanami is pale. In the dark, it's hard to notice her Asian features. She lies in bed, like Michelle, but her legs hang over her bed, toes grazing floor.

Where has all your love gone, he thinks. There's no respect in this. Blood has congealed over her shredded jugular. Black hair crusted with older blood peeks out from under a wig of synthetic blonde hair. There are bruises on her neck and no other signs of trauma, apart from the telltale piercings.

The discolouration on her eyes bothers him. It's not until he leans in close that he realizes Sanami was wearing blue contacts – two faint rings encircled her irises, too bright of a colour to be natural. By the diameter, L thinks these are circle lenses, contacts popular in Asia for giving the appearance of wider eyes.

L closes his own, feeling an old thrumming behind them. The bells of his mind start ringing, once again.

_No, no, this isn't right. There's no tenderness. This isn't how the Shrike would love. She's an outlier, like the other girl, she's as wrong as Michelle and Katrina but he's not cruel to his mistakes, those blonde-haired blue-eyed girls are so dear to him, he has to show them so badly, has to but he can't, what's holding him back?_

_The girls, he needs them so, won't let them go unless they're not right. And even when they are wrong, like the two were somehow, like Sanami who had tried to hide her otherness, he's kind, he tucks them in and stuffs them with antler velvet. Why stitches and antler velvet? To mend what's been done, and velvet's used to heal tendons and cartilages and god, he just wants to take it all back, you poor dears, I'm sorry, please, I just don't want her to leave, I –_

L's eyes flutter open. He checks for velvet or stitches, and finds neither.

“They say you put the special in special agent,” a voice behind him says.

It's Halle. There's no weight to the insult, L knows. Halle has weathered forensics longer than her male peers, and has probably heard the jab from a well-meaning source. L will talk to Matsuda later.

They are standing over Sanami Komatsu and suddenly L feels very guilty.

“You're not supposed to be here,” L says.

She ignores him. “Nate said they're making you take a psych eval. You're unstable?”

He ignores her. “Where's Soichiro?”

She jabs a thumb at the doorway. He's watching from there, clearly glaring at Halle. He'll rebuke her in private, but for now, he knows not to broach L's space. Another body would incense him.

“This isn't the Shrike,” he tells Soichiro.

Soichiro's face falls. “A copycat.”

“Yes. They want us to think Sanami was accidentally taken by the Shrike. They've deliberately set this display to contradict the others. This, this is a mockery. It's wrong in all the right ways, like a game of spot the difference. The copycat didn't love her. He thought this girl was foul.” L laughs humourlessly. “He thought she was a pig. I can't say much else. Couldn't put myself in his head.”

He can tell Soichiro doesn't believe his last statement, but it's true. L is reluctant to put himself in a killer's mind while he's already inhabiting another.

Soichiro steps in, now that L's assessment is over and Halle has preoccupied herself with her own.

“Think hard. Is there anything you can tell me about this copycat?” Soichiro asks, prodding what he knows isn't there.

L frowns. “Are you implying I'm not thinking hard all the time? Because I am. And no, this is too smart. He's sadistic, that's obvious, and intelligently predicted just how to distort this display for me, enough so that I'd be able to differentiate what the Shrike is looking for. He may never kill like this again.” He snorts. “If anything, he's helped me get a clearer picture of our man.”

Soichiro inhales deeply and strokes a hand through his hair. “All right. Let me know if anything else comes to you. Find anything, Lidner?”

“She's missing her heart,” Halle says.

 

* * *

  
When L walks into Soichiro's office, there's already a man sitting there, pouring coffee from a thermos into a china cup.

And then there's this asshole, L thinks. He slumps his walk. Lets his face slacken.

“Hello,” the man says.

“I am perfectly sane,” L says.

 

* * *

 

  
L is the biggest liar he's ever met and it makes Light hungry.

 

* * *

 

The psych eval runs for hours.

“Oh, I definitely have problems with authority,” L murmurs, tipping a fourteenth sugar cube into the thermos. Around the third, Light had stopped drinking. “It's why I work with the FBI, you know. Can't stand the man.”

“The man?”

“The man,” L confirms. “Gotta take him down from the inside, brother.”

Light hums. He's writing slow, taking his time to glance at L as he jots his notes. He looks pleased by what he sees.

“Are you uncomfortable in social situations?”

“Terribly. I have severe anxiety. Started taking medication for high cortisol levels since last month. Can't stand talking to anyone,” L says. “Can barely stand talking to you,” he adds.

Light snorts. “Yes, I can see that,” he says. His eyes flit above, as if Light was trying not to roll his eyes.

“Don't believe me, Yagami?”

Light continues to stare above. “I think I'm the most intelligent person you've talked to all week and you want to drag this on as long as possible.”

L pulls his feet up and hugs his legs. He shucked off shoes and socks twenty minutes ago, when he started waxing poetic on his phobia of footwear.

“What gave you that impression?” he asks.

“Your mannerisms are all obviously exaggerated. You're trying to misinform me with eccentric behavioural patterns and answers,” Light says. He lowers his gaze, staying at L through half-lidded eyes. “It's cute.”

“Ha. Yes, cute. How demeaning. Your word choice suggests you want me to believe my actions to be as thoughtful as a child's. Am I supposed to infer a jab at my masculinity too? That's laughable. At any rate, what makes you so sure I think you're intelligent?”

“You're barely paying attention to the image you project to others, but with me you've dressed to the nines in this idiot persona. And you know I'm aware that it's just a screen, that I'm smart enough to discern your real nature underneath. But you're bored, so this act is just as much for me as it is for you. I know how you act around my father. He's a man you almost respect, so there's none of this pretense.”

“Your narcissism is astounding. Figures. That's a brand name suit, isn't it? Everyone else here wears department store, but you don't think you're anyone else, not really. God. You're not taking into account how your occupation is playing a role in our interactions at all, are you? That it might benefit me to give a skewed evaluation to Hoope?”

“You don't give a shit about Hoope. You don't really care about anyone, really. I could write you off as fit for death row and you'd take it all in stride. And yes, I hold my appearance in high regard. Thank you for noticing. It's a Fioravanti. I only buy bespoke these days, you know. Do you think people are untrustworthy and are out to get you?”

L almost sneers. “Way to keep it professional, Yagami. And no, I don't. People are mostly harmless. I'm not paranoid.”

Light brings a hand to his mouth, either to rub at the side of his lips or hold in a laugh. He does both, a muffled happy noise kept lodged in his throat. When he's done, he puts down his notepad by the table and leans in close to L. His hand brushes against L's identification card, which he'd clipped to a belt loop in his jeans. L never realized how close they were sitting.

“Thank you for participating in your evaluation, L,” Light says in his ear. “Would you like to have dinner?”

“No,” L says. He gets up and leaves.

When he's home, he rips his identification card into shreds and throws it in the trash. He calls Watari for a new one an hour later. He tells him his former was compromised.

 

* * *

  
The next morning there's a knock on his door.

L opens it and sees Light.

He closes his door.

“Should I run a background check on you?” he asks through a crack in the door.

“I brought french toast.” is the reply.

L lets him in.

 

* * *

 

The banana-stuffed french toast is accompanied by tupperwared fruit salads and maple-glazed turkey bacon. L drizzles honey over it all. He almost wants to bring out the aerosol whipped cream he keeps in the fridge, but he'd rather not share more with Light than he already has.

“I'd like to be friends.”

“I don't find you that interesting.”

He tries the bacon, chewing it carefully. The glaze of maple syrup has caramelized the meat, smoky sweetness melting on his tongue.

Light watches him eat, smile growing wider as if he's enjoying an inside joke.

“You will.”

 

* * *

 

L doesn't like squads, not even when he was on the force. He prefers junkers, humpy cars two decades out of fashion and smelling like bad air conditioner. He does not miss the slight tug Light's mouth makes when they sit in L's 1992 Dodge Intrepid and the plastic seat covers squeak underneath them.

“You hacked your father's computer records,” L states.

“Yes.”

“That's illegal.”

“Hmm.”

Soichiro had called earlier, telling L forensics found a flake of metal on Katie, matching metals used in commercial pipe threaders. Overnight, they'd narrowed potential origins for the flake to several construction companies. L thinks Nate did most of the legwork for this case – it would have been a worthy challenge eliminating sources using just one flake's variables, and he can't think of anyone who'd produce as impressive results while working the notorious Monday night shift.

“How many other aliases do you have, Ryuuga?” Light says, the pseudonym dragging across his lips.

He had agreed to show Light how he investigates in exchange for the man staying mum on his “true” identity. He now wonders why. Negotiating with terrorists never works. He would know.

“I don't know, Yagami. How many girlfriends are you seeing right now?”

“Please, call me Light. And four, as of two days ago. My fifth found out about the others and ended it. Girls can be so heartless.”

“Poor baby. I'll cry you a river when I get home. Typical that you'd need a small harem to satisfy your narcissism. I assume they aren't keeping you satisfied, by your invitation last night.”

“I'm insatiable,” Light says, with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. “I imagine the great detective L feels the same way.”

“My imagination is wholly populated by serial killers,” L says. “I can assure you I am preoccupied with nothing else, especially whatever you project me to feel.”

“All right. How about just me then?”

“No vacancy.”

They arrive at Vulcan's Cutting & Threading early.

 

* * *

 

Mihael had forgotten the shovel in the forest. The neighbour visits and tells his dad off something fierce. Mr. Klein spits when he yells. Mihael is glad that, for all of his dad's faults, at his most angry his voice still remains as soft and even as ever.

Are his dad's words tempered by love for his son? Or does he just sublimate all frustrations through hunting? Unknowns. Knowledge is power and Mihael hates how weak he is.

The phone rings. He frowns. Caller ID says private number, a rarity when the only ones who call around these days are his dad's work contacts and full scholarship offers from universities.

He picks up and listens.

 

* * *

 

“ _Halle. Results_?” he texts.

The answer comes within minutes. “ _Michelle had lung cancer. We screened Katrina's liver and found alcoholic hepatitis_.”

L closes his eyes. Okay. So their insides were no good. The meat was bad. But why would that be important?

Unless.

“He's eating the girls,” he says.

Light looks up from the stack of paperwork they were speed-reading. “Pardon? Where's this coming from?”

L's eyes are still closed. He can't hear the ringing over Light.

“Shut up. He's killing girls to show his love, then devouring them so they won't go to waste. He can't eat bad meat though, and he regrets killing them if he can't honour them.”

L opens his eyes. For an instant, he sees a strange expression on Light's face before it disappears.

“That's a nice theory,” he says. “But how can you be sure he's cannibalizing them? He could be running an organ donor service on the black market.”

“No, god no. This is a love for one girl he can't have, slaughterous adoration for the ideal. He wouldn't share her with anyone else. I wouldn't. Would you?”

“No,” Light agrees.

“Excuse me sirs,” the clerk says. “Could I get your names again?” She's still holding her cell phone, despite just finishing a call, as if it to ring the police should they give the wrong answer.

Light shows his identification card and points at L's, while L thumbs through Vulcan's employee records. He makes small talk as L's eyes dart from page to page, searching for oddness. L supposes he's a bit thankful to Light. Casual talk with civilians is difficult after listening to the bells.

After 60-odd pages, L finds something. Or rather, the lack of something, which is even better.

“Where is this man's address? He's only left a phone number.” He shows the clerk Rod Ross' file.

“Roddie? He's one of our temp plumbers. If you wanna talk to him, he won't be in until 6 tomorrow, I reckon. You never know with that one, his attendance's pretty spotty.”

“I noticed.”

“I'm sure we have his home address on file somewhere, I can check. ”

“Does Ross have a teenager daughter or a niece? She'd be blonde, blue-eyed, possibly slender--”

“Oh! You must be talking about Mihael. I thought he was a girl at first too,” the clerk says.

“It's that haircut of his, just the prettiest darn thing. And such a good boy too. He's always bringing his pa's lunch over and...”

A son with long blonde hair. L freezes. The girl he can never have. There it is.

 

* * *

 

  
There's no time to drop Light off and a high chance Mihael has been the intended victim all along. The murders will either culminate with his death, his father's or both.

As Light calls for backup inside, L paces around his car, revising the Weaver stance and running through as many possible outcomes as he can. At moments like this, preparation is crucial for increasing the probability of success, and in this case, survival.

When Light's finished, he emerges from Vulcan's with a grim look on his face. L's ready for the worst, so he sets a grimmer look on his.

“I calculated the distance. We'd get there in fifteen minutes, a solid seven minutes before police,” he says.

“Okay,” he says. “We're getting there in ten.”

 

* * *

 

  
It worries L how high-performance driver training is practically non-existent in American police academies, and not mandatory for all special investigation employees. He believes that everyone working for any intelligence agency, field agents and otherwise, should know pursuit procedures. It's essential to utilize resources as effectively as possible. As much as he hates to admit it, justice is a team sport and you're only as good as your weakest player. For his next case, he thinks he'll demand the FBI completely overhaul its driving education system before he agrees to solve anything. But for now, he copes.

“Go faster,” L says, poking Light in the ribs.

“We're making good time,” Light says, peering down at his watch. It's cheaply made, something as unnatural on Light as a good night's sleep to L. It's a gift from someone who sees Light often, whose approval he wants to appear to hold in high esteem. L makes a note to thank Soichiro for his horrible taste in wristwear sometime.

“Yes, if I had arthritis and you were a double leg amputee. Drive better, Light.”

They arrive at 41 Gordon Drive a minute later than L wanted.

It is quiet, save for the chirps of cicadas, woken too early by the day's unusual summerness. The sun glazes the brick house and lush lawns in amber tones, but overexposes everything else. The white of L's shirt is blinding. His holster itches against his side. It's hot and it's suffocating and it's the middle of April. L is reminded of Atlanta and almost smells vaporized lead.

Then there is a scream and a gunshot. It starts. They run to the front door.

L drives his heel near the keyhole, kicking the door's weakest spot. As soon as it falls, he's ran over it.

He raises his handgun, sweeping and clearing each room rapidly, before he reaches Rod.

They are in the kitchen.

A fine mist of blood coats the refrigerator.

Rod turns, and pulls Mihael to face L.

There is a single-action revolver on the floor, its wooden grip splintered under the weight of Rod's foot.

Rod holds a knife to Mihael's neck.

His right shoulder is dripping blood onto Mihael's exposed collarbone.

Mihael is hyperventilating. Rod is taking shallow breathes. L can't hear either of them.

Rod doesn't break away from staring at L. Rod sees L and L sees Rod, and it lasts forever.

Forever ends when Rod's knuckles turn white and he gives in, driving the serrated blade into Mihael's throat.

L fires five times. Four to the chest, one to the left shoulder.

Everyone falls. L rushes to catch Mihael, elevating his neck while his hands try to stem the blood gushing onto the laminate floor. Mihael's glassy eyes move side to side until focusing on L's.

“See,” Rod says as he dies. “See.”

And L sees.

 

* * *

 

Mihael wakes in a hospital bed. Someone is holding his hand.

To his left is a man with eyes blacker than oilspills.

“Hey,” he says tiredly.

 

* * *

 

Mihael's voice is deeper than L expected.

“Is he dead?” Mihael asks.

“Yes.”

Mihael's shoulders slump. “Okay. That's. Yeah. Do you have any chocolate?”

Light enters, carrying lunch trays. He gives the one covered in vending machine sweets to L, and the other with a proper lunch to Mihael.

Mihael doesn't touch the meatloaf covered in congealed gravy, or the slice of Wonderbread slathered in strawberry jelly. He shines the gala apple on his bedsheets and takes small bites.

 

* * *

  
L stays by Mihael's side for three days.

They don't talk much. They shower less. When Light visits, he brings baby wipes and Marou chocolate, cut by the slab and wrapped in linen.

They both love him a little more for it.

The FBI have L on indefinite stay in Virginia. They want the copycat sussed out alive, someone breathing who they can pin the anguishes of the childless living. The pay is less than what Spain is currently offering him, and the body count is far below the butchered politicians turning up in Burma.

But L doubts the ringing is louder anywhere else than it is in Wolf Trap.

 

* * *

 

  
“Your cologne is fucking awful,” Light says.

They are driving to an early morning briefing. In the wee hours, buses blinker on blue lights for early riders. It paints the trees surrounding them in eerie shades, startling howls out of the foxes who lurk by the road. They leave the rodents they had eviscerated and retreat to the safety of the underbrush, letting their prey bleed out, uneaten. It's a gory morning sight of viscera, mottled with ticks and hazed of flies, made worse by the cloyingly sweet, matutinal scents of Venice mallows and California poppies, swelling to bloom in the twilight. It all threatens to be one swerve or inhale away from a very bad trip. L rolls down the window and continues driving straight.

“How so? I've been told it suits me.”

“It leaves an unhappy aftertaste,” Light says, drumming his fingers on the dashboard in tune to the radio's soft crooning.

“I apologize for the disgust my stench induces. I'll be sure to spray something tasty on next time.”

“Yes, please do. I'd rather my impression of you be liberated from any falseness.”

“We both know that's not happening,” L says under his breath.

“At the very least, don't wear it tonight. My dinner guests would be appalled.”

L barks out a laugh. “You cocky shit. Do you really think I'd want to suffer the company of your so-called friends after a day cross-examining idiots? No thank you. I'll have wasted enough time as is.”

“Wasted?”

“Oh, come off. Questioning today's witnesses will be futile and you know it. Groups of people don't just drop dead of heart attacks all at once, much less with several organs removed. I'd prefer looking at autopsy results or visiting the crime scene again.”

“Tell you what. Drop by for a bite. We'll slip out after the main course and go crime-fighting.”

L tries to object, but catches sight of an oddly gentle smile on Light's face. It makes L uneasy to see, like he's pulled off one mask and found another.

“Well, all right,” he finds himself saying.

“Any preferences? Besides cavity-inducing.”

“Just no acts of cannibalism. I've had my full with the Shrike.”

"That's fine," Light says. “Teenage girls are controversial dishes in these parts anyway.”

 

* * *

 

Mihael hates letting food go to waste. After binging on chocolates with European names (they make him forget the round-the-clock sourness in his mouth, if only for a while) for a week, he tries to eat the other gifts Light has left him.

Usually, the night-shift nurse has to dump whatever meal Light leaves in a thermos after his visits, but today Mihael thinks he can handle it. Light said he'd made a “spiced stew of veal marinated in the juices of sun-ripened tomatoes, with dried ancho chiles and kidney beans, all garnished with _chocolate para mesa_.”

In other words, chili with chocolate in it, L had said.

Unscrewing the lid, a rush of savory steam hits Mihael. His mouth can't help but water, despite what his mind reminds him the smell of cooked meat should mean.

So Mihael eats.

He does not gag when he tastes something familiar.

 


	2. Chapter 2

In his living room are three television sets with basic cable, four laptops and two desktop computers, each connected to three monitors, aglow with newsfeeds from around the world. Burners are stashed throughout the house and in his car, most equipped with voice changers.

Right now, everything is turned off.

L's body collects movements like some people hoard clothes: some are reached for on a daily basis, while others only when the situation calls.

He's in the Sayanasana pose when Light walks into his living room.

“You do yoga?” Light asks incredulously. “You know what, never mind. Autopsy's in.”

Only L's elbows are touching the floor. With his hands cupping his face and his feet pulled towards head, L can't quite reach the sheaf of papers Light waves at him.

“I know a lot of ways to contort myself,” L says. “I'm well-versed in several martial arts as well.”

L's lying. He knows eight, and is currently learning one, albeit slowly. To be fair, competent Capoeiristas are hard to come by in Virginia and Youtube can only teach so much.

“I really don't care. COD's kidney failure for all seven.”

“Good. That confirms my theory. Tell Nate to check their medical records, they should all be diabetics.”

“I assume your theory is based on diabetic ketoacidosis, yes?”

“Yes. He induced comas, thus making it easy to bury them alive without struggle. The sugar water IVs at the scene also indicate he wanted their bodies to fertilize the fungi we found.” L straightens himself slowly, then sits, agura-style. “Tell your father to look for anyone licensed to manufacture or distribute metformin. Individuals who would have had access to their medical information and the means to contaminate it will be suspicious.”

“You're not getting involved?”

“If he had buried three more, I would. Consider the fact I'm helping right now a courtesy to Soichiro.”

“All right,” Light says. “Would you like pancakes?”

 

* * *

 

 

Today, he's wearing a Brooks Brothers two-button summer khaki suit. Underneath, a long-sleeved white dress shirt from a spring collection by Dolce & Gabbana two years ago. The shirt is paired with a navy tie. His flat-front pants are cuffed at the bottom. Overall, it's a very casual look on Light this Sunday morning.

L knows more than he cares to about Light's wardrobe. He blames it on an Instagram account run by a mystery FBI employee (it's Matsuda) who's copied half of Behavioural Science onto a mailing list that updates them on Light's daily outfits. Every conspicuously taken cell phone picture is accompanied by a detailed itinerary of each article of clothing's origin, as well as hashtags like “ _#nofilter_ ” and “ _#wokeuplikethis_.”

Occasionally,“ _#throwbackThursday_ ” is used on said day, when a photo of a young Light is uploaded, usually in his high school uniform. L thinks there's a 90 per cent chance Soichiro is an accessory after the fact.

“Pass the margarine, could you?” Light asks. L does.

There's an even higher chance that Light is aware of the account's existence. In certain photos, he almost appears to be posing in a uncandidly candid way.

“I've had better Byelorussian kolduny,” L says.

“Where?”

“In Belarus, of course,” L says. “You use too much meat.”

“And not enough sugar?” Light asks, eying the thrice helping of molasses L smothered his pancakes in. “You need the protein anyway.”

“Yes and no, my diet is sufficient without your meddling.”

“Duly noted and I disagree,” Light says. He reaches out and softly pinches L's left arm. “You're so thin. I could just eat you up right now and be famished within the hour.”

“The stomach's volume is one litre, but can distend to four. Despite appearances, I weigh much more than eight pounds. And I fail to see why you'd try.”

“Why else?” Light says, smile widening. “I'd want to make a feast out of you.”

 

* * *

 

Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach. L can, but doesn't want to, so Hideki Ryuga holds a guest speaker lecture at the FBI Academy on Friday night. It's announced five hours before it starts, is fully booked within two.

Mihael attends. He's been trailing him like a fed stray. L wonders why, when Light is the one showering him in gifts: clothes in the right sizes, stacks of gift cards to most major outlets and nearby chocolatiers. No scarves though. L makes a note to ask Light why.

Mihael hasn't refused anything, although he doesn't use any of it either. He wears faded plaid shirts and black tank tops in warmer weather, a brown corduroy jacket when it rains. They're all oversized remnants from the previous homeowner, baggy enough that they rustle when Mihael walks through the fields behind the house, sleeves tugging on the tips of feather reedgrass. The golden seedheads ripened too early, so they smear the edges of Mihael's hems like aborted stars on flannel skies.

It puzzles L how Mihael has avoided his benefactor since being discharged. Instead, he sleeps in L's attic by morning and broods on his front porch by night.

Sometimes, L will join him. They sit in plastic rocking chairs and drink hot chocolate, looking out onto the fireflies weaving through tall grass and around apple tree trunks. Mihael will talk about his dog's favourite places to hide things and L will retell cases where fathers didn't try to kill their sons.

Last night, L spoke of Los Angeles. His story was rife with dead gangsters found in graffitied payphone booths; drug dealers carrying babies in arm slings; houses with windows boarded in plywood, pentagrams sprayed on their roofs and bodies in their basements. Mihael listened without interruption.

When L finished, Mihael told him he wanted to join the FBI.

L thinks he'll tell another story about Los Angeles tonight, and see what the boy says then.

For now, he speaks about a killer still at large.

An image of Sanami's corpse flashes onto the projector screen.

“Rod Ross killed 12 girls who looked like his son. Two of the girls were found, as well as another girl, but she wasn't killed by the Shrike,” L says.

There's movement at the back of the room. L sees Light and Soichiro walk in and sit near Mihael.

The students orbit themselves around Soichiro, shifting their chairs, smoothing down their hair and stiffening their backs. The Chief has deigned this lecture worthy. It would be wise to be noticed attending, wiser to be noticed for looking smart.

They are inferring Soichiro's preference for well-groomed individuals based on Light, L thinks. He's glad that in a room of ex-cops, there are a few good minds. He hopes they can solve what his is wary to.

“This is Sanami Komatsu. Whoever killed Sanami wanted us to know she was killed by a copycat,” L says. “They are intelligent, sadistic and want us to know that. How do we catch someone who will never kill this way again?

We don't know what the copycat's relation is to Ross. However, phone company records show Ross received an untraceable call before attempting to murder his son,” L says. “I think it's very likely that the caller is our killer.”

His eyes scan the room. He gauges the reactions of the crowd, and finds most of them look to be in agreement with his statement. Then he turns to the three people he knows. Soichiro is staring gravely at the screen, Mihael is looking right at him, and Light's eyes are focused on a point above L's head. He has the same look on his face as the day they first met.

He starts to pace, walking close to the screen. He points at Sanami's wounds.

“You'll see the copycat has taken great care to imitate the Shrike as closely as possible. This suggests that if he is a civilian and not among our ranks, he has been following Sakura Tattler quite carefully. They're the only news source to have disclosed pictures of the other girls to the public at the time Sanami was murdered. I have no idea how they got access--”

“Kiyomi Takada,” pipes a voice and several people groan.

“Oh, yes. That explains it,” L says, almost to himself.

 

* * *

 

 

Kiyomi writes copy for Sakura TV and anchors for Sakura Morning, but all she really wants to do is blog about mass murderers on Sakura Tattler. It's more her baby than any flesh-and-blood one would be. She coded it from scratch. In its early months, she hunted down ad revenue herself, moderated all the comments, managed social media, and produced all of the content. Now, she employs a fact-checker, an online editor, a copy editor, a public manager, a slew of marketers and produces only 95 per cent of the posts.

Soon, she'll be stepping down from her TV roles and immersing herself headfirst in the lovely world of murders, million hitcount stories and her byline to thank for it all. The website will be more than enough for their new life.

“My own topless bar,” Misa breathes. She sniffs the note Kiyomi cosigned, as if her nose can detect forgery. “Oh Kimi, I could kiss you.”

So she does. They're sitting in Misa's motel room, hiding away from their admirers. It's the only safe place Kiyomi knows these days. She has a polarizing effect on everyone she meets, and is satisfied enough to keep it that way.

Misa's wearing her blonde hair today. It makes Kiyomi feel like they're girls again, holding hands underneath Cardcaptor Sakura bed sheets and singing the theme song into each other's mouths.

They were the only asian girls in elementary school (but it had felt like they were the only in the entire state of Virginia, really), before the wave of Japanese immigrants years later. The mass arrival of people who looked like them would herald better times for the girls, but back then, sleepovers were sweet respites away from spitballs and ripped toys.

Kiyomi traces figure eights onto Misa's neck. She tries not to think of who else the blonde wig reminds her of, but Misa notices Kiyomi's shoulders tighten.

“Mind on Sanami again, Kimi?” she asks.

Kiyomi hates stupid girls and likes smart boys. Misa is neither. Kiyomi loves her for it.

“Yes,” Kiyomi says. “Look babe, they haven't caught this killer yet and I don't know if they ever will. I don't want you to end up dead just because of that pretty head of yours. Besides, if you're not dancing anymore you won't have to wear that, right?”

Misa bites her lip. “I suppose so. Gee, who do you think is doing it?”

 

* * *

 

 

“You know, I dated Kiyomi Takada.”

“What.”

“Yes, in university. It didn't last long. We had different preferences.”

“You dated Kiyomi Takada.”

“I just said that. Anyway, she was different back then. Less full of shit.”

“I know, I'm just repeating it for Mihael. Mihael, did you hear that?”

Mihael says nothing.

They are sitting around Rod Ross' kitchen table, putting knives and oven mitts in white zipper bags. Mihael had wanted to go home. He told L he was planning on selling the house, using the money for tuition and eventually his own apartment.

Wherever L goes, one thing remains constant: murder houses or “stigmatized properties” are hard sells, particularly if the homeowner cannibalized girls and most of the bodies were yet to be recovered.

They won't ever be, Mihael had told them. His father was a deer hunter, and he honoured his prey by using up every last part of them. Knowing him, he'd said, those girls' bones are holding pipes together.

“Kiyomi was nice to me,” Mihael says suddenly. “She visited me in the hospital. Said she wanted to tell my story.”

“By that she means profit from your story,” Light says. “Be careful around her.”

“I'm careful around most folks,” Mihael says. “I'm smarter than I look, you know. You didn't bring me back here just to say goodbye or give my things to the FBI.”

His eyes are a little wild when he talks.

“You want to trigger some sort of memory,” he says. “You think I helped him.”

“Show your work,” L says, zipping away a rolling pin.

Mihael sits up stiffly.

“Soichiro didn't send us all here to bag evidence. Any fool could do that, so why would he send a murderer's son back to where his dad died, along with the only other two who were there? Right now there are two unknowns to the FBI: where he killed them and who the caller is,” he says. “He figures I know one or both unknowns, unconciously or not, and hopes I'll slip up if the circumstances are recreated.”

“Full marks,” L says, and Mihael leans back into his seat. There's a small smile on his lips, but it's quickly replaced by his usual forlorn grimace.

“He's out of luck, then,” Mihael says. “I don't know where he took them or who called.”

“Maybe he had an accomplice, who provided the location and was the caller,” L says. “Did your dad have any new friends in his life, or people he saw a lot?”

Mihael screws up his face. “I don't think so.”

“Did the caller's voice sound familiar, like anyone you've met?” Light asks.

Mihael's eyes dart to Light, then look away.

“No,” he says slowly, after several moments. Then, he bares teeth, as if to smile.

“But I think we should try role-playing it. Just to see if it jogs my memory.”

“You be my dad,” he says, pointing at L.

“And you be the man on the phone,” he says, pointing at Light.

 

* * *

 

 

Oh Mihael, Light thinks. How tasteless.

 

* * *

 

 

“But, we'll have to hold on. I need to use the bathroom.”

Mihael walks upstairs, his hands bunched into fists.

“He's a good liar, but his eyes gave him away,” Light says under his breath. “He looked away when I asked.”

“Actually, I find that good liars tend to maintain eye contact. The notion that looking away indicates deception is terribly western-centric.”

“How so?”

“Latin American, Asian, and African individuals are likely to look away from authority figures as a sign of respect or deference, females from said cultures especially. There's also innate distrust one might have towards a specific authority figure, such as the police or the Agent-in-Charge's son, that would cause eye avoidance,” L says. “He was lying, though. Your reasoning was just poorly rationalized. C for effort.”

Light snorts. “Guess I'll have to make it up in the midterm. Okay, L. How could you tell he was lying?”

“Mihael swiped a chocolate bar from the counter before leaving. He's only going to the bathroom to eat where we can't see him,” L says. “The sweets are a coping mechanism for stressful situations. Since our previous conversations about his dad haven't triggered this response, I can only assume this line of questioning became stressful because he was being untruthful. That, or he really hates you.”

“I hope the former but assume the latter,” Light says with a sigh. “God, have you seen what he was wearing? I gave him Armani and he wears Goodwill. That boy needs therapy.”

Light stands, moves to the counter to brew another cup.

(“ _You're bringing your french press to the crime scene?” “Of course. I'm not an animal._ ”)

“Why no scarves?” L asks finally.

The sliver of pinkish skin nicked in Mihael's neck is stark against the scabbing around it. It will be a jagged white crescent when he's older.

“Why would he need one? He's perfect just the way he is,” Light says.

“Oh yes, everyone's beautiful, there are no wrong answers, and you can be whatever you want to be when you grow up. Thanks Light, I hadn't had my daily intake of bullshit yet.”

“Why do you care?” Light counters. He sips, then peers down at L from his mug.“Mihael's appearance means nothing to you. The only body image you're concerned with is your own, and barely so.”

“I care that you don't. You're encouraging him to become accustomed to being disfigured.”

“Yes, I am.” Light blows steam from his mug, setting another in front of L. "Do you have any scars?”

“Yes.” L doesn't move to show him any. He might as well gesture towards his entire body.

“Then you understand what power they hold. How the best of them remind us of the worst of others. That our traumas were once realities.”

“You want him him to remember who gave it to him,” L says.

“I want him to be grateful,” Light says.

L does not respond. He drinks, letting coffee wash over the questions threatening to spill out.

_Grateful for being alive? Or grateful his father was what he was?_

He studies Light behind the steam of his mug. It's a temporary veil, another firewall separating the two. 

Light Yagami was an honours student. Light Yagami works with the FBI. Light Yagami gives orphans designer clothes. 

Light Yagami is always wearing a suit.

There is something more Light than the rest of him that the man is obscuring. L would know.  

It's a suspicion that hangs in the air between them, as heavy as the implications every dinner invitation holds.

As terrifying as every moment their eyes meet and L sees someone he wants to know.

I've been through worse than you, L wants to say. But some part of him does not want to hear Light's inevitable reply.  _No, you haven't._

* * *

 

 

They hear the doorbell ring behind them, and a cough follow it. Neither men move to answer it.

“Someone's here, Mihael,” L calls.

After a minute, Mihael walks downstairs and sees Mail in.

“Jesus, Mail,” he says, rushing to greet the other boy with a hug.

“No, Jeevas, Mailhairer,” Mail says and it becomes very hard for Mihael not to hit him.

“Shut the fuck up, man. How've you been?”

“Better than you. Wanna smoke? You need one more than I do.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Oh my god, you named your dog after me? Oh my god, I think I love you.”

“Shut up,” Mihael says, but doesn't mean it.

They're walking by the stream that runs near his house (not his anymore, Mihael reminds himself, maybe never his to begin with), skipping flat stones and hitting silver birches with bad throws.

He wants to stay here, where the only sounds are trickling water and Mail's hoarse voice, and the air smells like old campfires and Lucky Strikes. If he could hold it all in his lungs, carrying it with him through the bad times he sees coming, he'd take one long gulp and stop breathing right there.

“Matt's dead, though. Shot down like varmint,” he says, spitting on a mossy log they step over. “I'm sorry I couldn't introduce you to each other. Why does your mom call you Matt anyway?”

Mail blows smoke into Mihael's hair. “Fuck if I know. I think it was my dad's name? I dunno.” He moves closer, french inhaling on Mihael's neck.

Mihael shoves Mail and laughs.

“Thanks for seeing me,” he says.

“No problem. As soon as I saw that shitty car pull in, I knew you needed me more than ever,” Mail says. “It's been bumfucking boring since you left. All news vans and teary-eyed folks telling 'em you were such a quiet boy, bless yer heart, that they knew all along something was off about you.”

“Something off,” Mihael echoes. “Hey. Do you think you can catch someone's crazy?”

“Folie à deux,” Mail says. “Madness shared by two. My great-aunt shouted it when she caught us in the shed, remember?”

“Oh, yeah,” Mihael says.

Mail had packet sniffers set up across ever major institution's local area network in Virginia. Last summer, they monitored the user traffic of a local gay porn company, trying to cross-reference which users were also employed by the post office and lived in a Fairfax neighbourhood. They successfully narrowed down the whereabouts of a mailman they suspected to have been breaking-and-entering into the homes of homosexual men, robbing and beating his victims. Their anonymous tip led to an arrest, a first taste of detective work for both of them. It also led to Great-Aunt Marie finding both boys crowing victory in the garden shed, with two laptops screens playing scenes from _Backdoor Pizza Delivery 5_ and _Bear Wars: Twinks Strike Back_.

It was a good summer. His father had a new job and his best friend could run from angry old women as fast as he could. His prayers back then were to graduate with honours come June.

Nowadays, it's harder to pray. Pink arms and blue lights paint over the holy in his head. When he calls out to God, a voice tells him to give the phone to his dad. Mihael's losing his religion.

“I want to kill Light Yagami,” Mihael says.

“Cool,” Mail says.

 

* * *

 

 

This is the anatomy of a strip club.

There are Hello Kitty stickers on the dishwasher. Liquor and Adult Entertainment Licenses from City Hall hang above the bar, along with Misa's selfie with the mayor.

Backstage, there are plastic covers on the hot pink leather couch. They never come off. Bejeweled bras and furlined corsets and makeup bags are stashed in gym lockers, adorned in gold stars and glittery paper hearts. Inside, they are lined with magazine cut-outs of male celebrities and worn-out photos of boyfriends. For others, girlfriends. For some, both.

The poles shine metal and the ropes around them are velvet. The sign “MISA CITY” outside is handpainted, and the blinking neon caricatures of nude women burn Kiyomi's hand when she accidentally found herself reaching out. The walls are deep purples and reds. The bass reverberates so low the stage shakes when the playlists get dirtier. It makes Kiyomi feel like she's strutting inside of a huge bloody organ, about to burst.

The girls are clean, work at least four shifts a week, and take home $90k salaries. Kiyomi refuses anything less. Misa wants to hire boys, so they'll wean their customers onto the idea over the next few months.

Ten years ago, if someone were to tell Kiyomi she'd co-own a strip club with Misa Amane, she'd cling tight to her boyfriend's arm and laugh, saying she wasn't like other girls and didn't consider strippers intelligent conversationalists.

Five years ago, she'd cling to one of her many bottles of booze and bawl, hungover and hung up on the girl she let get away.

A year ago, Kiyomi wouldn't bat an eye. She'd cling onto nothing but her spiral notepad and demand to know what the initial overhead costs of Misa City will be.

 

* * *

 

 

Of L's 206 bones, he's broken over half of them more times than he can remember. Some, on purpose. Through controlled strikes to concrete walls, L has conditioned his forearms and shins, hands and feet; remodeling his very bone structure to adapt to immense loads. His body follows Wolff's Law.

L's digestive system has dissolved more snake venom, arsenic, illegal narcotics and alcohol combined than leafy greens. His tolerance has dismayed espionage agents and town drunks alike. His body practices mithridatism.

The neurotypical responses firing in L's brain can assume the perspectives of others based on his own senses. He can accurately recreate identity, and therefore motive, of any individual, while maintaining a core personality. It's not a disorder. The word implies a lack of premeditation. His body feels empathy.

The soft tissues that cluster themselves as the body of L have hid under wool knits in Winchester, bisht cloaks in Arabian deserts, satin bedsheets in Moscow. They have been vulnerable to attacks, but never breached. Never compromised.

 

* * *

 

When L wakes up, he's surrounded by gnarled trees.

His feet are pulped with rotted apple, sore from graveled paths.

L is well-versed in Kyokushin karate, and has a gu-dan black belt in Taekwondo. The roundhouse kick he delivers could shatter bones. Certain South American death squad members can attest to that.

But there are no bones here, only acres of shriveled fruit and termite hills and oriole birds flitting from green to dark tree. There is no one to see the empire collapse, the dictatorship L's mind held over the rest of him overthrown.

L never felt powerless, until he started sleepwalking.

 

* * *

 

 

Protective glasses and earmuffs subdue the gunshots, but do nothing for the heat shimmers dancing in his vision.

Maybe he's still enveloped in a dream. Maybe the paper cutout targets are breathing human beings. He can't be sure of anything right now.

 

* * *

 

Mail loved Hogan's Alley as a kid. An 80's Nintendo light gun shooter, you'd use the NES Zapper to fire at targets in a virtual gun range. When they moved across the screen, you'd hold your plastic orange pistol in a death grip, aiming at pixelated bank robbers. If you shot the wrong guy, like a mustached cop or the one lady character, the game's colour palette would invert itself, pulsing onscreen with the word **MISS** hovering over who you should've shot, calm tones of the game becoming angry beeps. It always shook Mail up, made him want to be quicker at the draw because the alternative was a nightmarish shock to the senses. Fear made him a sharp shooter.

 

* * *

 

 

He won't run out of ammunition for a few more hours. He aims for the head, but only hits white borders. Sometimes, he doesn't even make the target and his bullets meet the rear wall in whishing clickclackclunks.

 

* * *

 

 

Mail's first gun was his mom's. A .38 caliber double barrel, ultra-light even in his 10-year-old hands. He found it digging around in her purse, looking for spare change. Instead he met The Bride, a canary yellow revolver, her name emblazoned on her muzzle in faded gothic font.

 

* * *

 

 

He tries not to blink. Under his eyelids, blue eyes stare back, pleading for something he can't give right now.

He reloads.

 

* * *

 

It was love at first reload. Recycling bins all over the neighbourhood were emptied of pop cans and bottles. Mail saved up a month's allowance for cardboard boxes brimming with shiny golden rounds. Fences were riddled with his misses, until gradually, they weren't.

Eventually, he took to wearing a pair of shooting goggles at all times. The amber tint cut down on daylight glare, turning the world's palettes into ones he could stand, shades of binary codes and bullets and the 8-bit words **YOU WIN** at the end of a good day.

All the world's a system and Mail wants to hack it all.

 

* * *

 

 

“Can't sleep?”

L turns and it's the boy Mihael went doe-eyed around earlier. He's wearing the same clothes too, a dark green military jacket and black jeans muting the impression his tinted goggles and biker gloves leave.

They had been standing side-by-side for most of the night. L hadn't noticed.

“I can never sleep,” L says. “Tonight was the rare time I did.”

“I hear you,” Mail says. “Thank fuck for Hogan's Alley. I never figured if they named this place after the video game or if the game came after.”

“The game was out after,” L says, and Mail grins.

“You're Hideki right? The guy who killed Mihael's dad?”

“Yes.”

“Cool,” Mail says. “So you have insomnia too? Sucks, innit.”

“Yeah,” L says. Contrary to what Watari says, L doesn't revel in sleepless nights. His inability to regulate his sleep is depriving his brain of a resting period. Rest aids thinking, like cool fans on an overheated processor. But the time in India isn't the time in Spain, and Australian kidnappers don't sleep when Canadian human traffickers do.

L shakes his head, trying to clear it of the crimes creeping into his periphery. He focuses on the one in front of him.

“This is an FBI facility with restricted access. You're 17 years old,” L says.

“Aww shucks, you got me,” Mail says. He throws his hands up.

“Guess I'll be heading home with my tail tucked between my legs now.” He walks towards the exit. “So long!”

L is almost certain he is dreaming.

Abruptly, the boy turns back. He stands behind L, lifts L's right arm and lowers his left elbow. Then, he pushes down on his tense shoulders.

“See if that helps with the recoil,” Mail says, before leaving.

L fires. It does.

 

* * *

 

 

L tries to walk home, from Quantico to Wolf Trap, but ends up in Baltimore instead, knocking on Light Yagami's door at 10:30 in the morning.

He had hitched a ride 20 minutes into his trip, hiding bare feet under frayed jeans. He rode shotgun with a delivery truck driver, crates of honeycrisp apples jostling behind them. It felt good to lean over the window, arms crossed and head cradled, breeze blowing bugs in his hair. He kept his eyes on the rear-view mirror, watching the dawn-tinged scenery fade past them, trees into streetlights, gardens into sidewalks. The black hulking shape that lurked at the edge of his sight since last night remained a constant. Ever since entering the apple delivery truck, L could have sworn it was nearer too. But, that could have been the view. _Objects in the mirror are closer they appear._

When Light opens his door, L's already asleep, slumped against the stair railing and snoring quietly. Beside him is a small basket. Light reaches in.

“I'm in the mood for brunch,” he tells the sleeping man.

 

* * *

 

 

“Moroccan lamb tagine, baked with local honeycrisp apples and French Agen prunes,” Light says. He tucks a cornflower-blue silk tablecloth into L's collar. “The side is jellied apricot.”

“You've been touching me a lot,” L says, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Define a lot.”

“Every time we've seen each other. A hand on the shoulder. A palm to the forehead. A rapt of knuckle to the wrist. You pinched my arm the other day. I haven't forgotten.”

“It's called human contact,” Light says, enunciating his words like he's speaking to a child.

“It's called a penchant for emotional manipulation through physical imprinting,” L corrects. “What do you want from me, Light?”

“Nothing, you paranoid fuck,” Light says, plating the tagine in front of L. When Light swears, L sees his age. There's still a tremor of joy coursing in his cuss, tongue flicking out slower to relish the irreverent. It's cute. “Forgive me for misjudging our closeness. Believe it or not, I find it hard to relate to others, and –-.”

“I believe it. What makes you think that's my problem?”

Light gives him an exasperated look. “Was I the one falling asleep on your door this morning? Don't play coy. Look, we're friends. Friends seek out each other. I'm sorry if the growing intimacy affected you.” At this, Light's mouth make a soft O shape. It curves quickly into a smile. If it was anyone else, L would have thought the man had realized something, but even Light's theatrics are calculated.

“Have I affected you, L?”

“No,” L says, not looking at Light's Hugh and Crye slim-fit navy blazer. He looks down instead. “The food's getting cold.”

L's phone vibrates.

“ _Group heart attack again. 184 Faucit Avenue. Come now_ ,” reads Soichiro's text.

L keeps his eyes on the lamb underneath him. “Can I get this for take-out?”

 

* * *

 

 

“Susanna Mountfort, Joey Flynn and Virginia Loup,” Nate says, twirling a hair strand from the sink and bagging it for evidence. “They were all found submerged in the bathtub with no struggle marks, no signs of strangulation, overdosing or drowning. There's no hemorrhaging under their eyelids.”

Halle heaves a concrete block off Joey Flynn's corpse. It weighs fifty pounds, but feels like fifteen. Her lifting regime is paying off. She thinks she'll treat herself to a strawberry protein shake after work.

The bodies' limbs sway in the pool-sized tub, heads hitting the sloping end softly. For such a lavish house, the residents hadn't been taking good care of it. Black mold clings to the gypsum false ceiling, thick furry blankets growing on half-eaten saucers of sturgeon caviar. Waterbugs scutter underneath crusted inky cocktail dresses, piled up in a hamper by the creaky Edwardian-style door.

“Do you think it's. You know. Kira?” Loud whispers.

Nate collects another hair. “I don't know,” he says. “And she can still hear you, Stephen.”

Halle tries to lift the concrete block off Virginia Loup, but finds it's too heavy. It doesn't budge, no matter how hard she strains.

“I'm sorry, Halle,” Loud says. “Lemme help.”

Most of the time, Halle Lidner doesn't remember her life as Halle Bullook.

“Blocks were placed post-mortem,” L says. “Vics are all healthy adults. The body's instinctive drowning response wouldn't have let them be killed so easily by a moveable object on the chest, even one of this weight.”

He circles the tub, Light's penny loafers itching at his soles.

It reminds L of a homemade gangland murder, too television in its presentation to be real or taken seriously.

L closes his eyes. Cast metal flashes in mind, and the ringing resounds under his skin, tintintins flaying him out. Two women, one man. One Mexican, and two Portuguese. One with glasses, two without.

_No, three beautiful people. In death, their bodies haven't puffed up, swelling with the indignity of an underwater grave. They look like nymphs, peaceful poetic putas passing away into the Pacific. He had made the whores love each other, he had seized them by their dainty ankles and pulled them into mocking embraces, plunged them headfirst into the rushing bathwater. The rush of water fills their holes so fast the sluts are shocked into subconscious. The last thing they see is blacker, blacker, black._

_Black mold..._

He opens his eyes, and dips a finger into the bathtub. He licks.

“It's sugar water,” he says. “Son of a bitch.”

 

* * *

 

 

The books will be referenced throughout this story, mostly Red Dragon and Silence of the Lambs.

L's first pose is [this](http://3ov892spm8d10ta5e2jeaon66m.wpengine.netdna-cdn.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/Shyasana.jpg). It's meant to make your legs look like a scorpion's tail.

[Here's](http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/byelorussian-kolduny-potato-pancakes-stuffed-with-ground-meat-recipe.html) a recipe for Light's pancakes. They're quite good, even if you substitute people with cow.

Fun fact: in my first year of university, I was kicked out of a strip club. Haven't been in one since.

The “I'm not an animal” line is based off a joke from Brooklyn Nine-Nine, which is another universe I'd love to write Death Note fic in.

I have a busy schedule. I apologize if future updates are far and in between. There's going to be a lot of canon divergence and timeline muddling, but we'll always loop back onto the key events in the show.


End file.
